Journeys
by Aebhel
Summary: A young man is caught breaking into a building in London, but escapes from police custody. A caseworker, Emma Thompson, is sent to investigate his relatives, sending two very different worlds on a collision course... DISCONTINUED


Emma Thompson's feet hurt. The sky was grey and rainy, and she'd forgotten to bring an umbrella, and to top it all off, her car was making a funny whining noise every time she braked. All in all, it was not a good day.

She pulled to a stop in front of the neat suburban house, checking twice to make sure she had the right number; all of the houses on this street looked exactly the same.

A metal number '4' glinted stolidly on the door - this was the right place. She sat still for a moment, composing herself, then got out of the car and strode up the walk, her high heels making a determined sort of clicking noise on the pavement.

The door flew open before she could knock, revealing a pale, thin woman with colourless hair that had been teased into an unnatural shape and a pinched expression. Emma shifted her briefcase to her other arm and stuck out her hand.

"Mrs. Dursley? I'm Emma Thompson with the Social Services Department, we called earlier?"

The woman looked at her hand with extreme distaste. After a long, uncomfortable moment, Emma dropped her arm, rubbing her knuckles distractedly against the side of her jumper.

"Erm. Well. May - may I come in?"

Mrs. Dursley's face twisted still more at this, a feat that Emma wouldn't have thought possible a moment before. "Yes, I suppose you'd better," she snapped at last, stepping aside enough that Emma could - barely - squeeze past her into the front hall. The door closed behind her with an audible _slam_.

Mrs. Dursley sailed across the hall with all the airs of a queen, leaving Emma to trail in her wake. It was a very clean hall, with shining metal fixtures and an oddly sterile look to the wallpaper.

A large man and an even larger teenaged boy were sitting at the kitchen table, eating smallish dishes of cereal with an aggrieved air.

"Vernon, this is Miss Thompson, she called earlier," the woman whispered. The man dropped his spoon with an audible clatter and glared at Emma as well.

"So, what have you to say for yourself, young missy? I'm missing half a day of work for this, and it had better be important."

"Erm," said Emma again, wishing heartily that she was back in the office. "Well, it's about your nephew, Harry."

The woman's eyes narrowed to slits. "Dudley, darling," she said without looking at her son, "you'd best go out now."

"I'm not finished eating," said Dudley in a sullen tone that would have been more suited to a toddler than a boy in his late teens.

The man - Vernon - dug about in his pocket for a moment before producing a crisp twenty-pound note, which he shoved at his son rather desperately. "Why don't you go off with Piers and get that new game you've been eyeing, eh, Dudders? Your Mum and I need to speak to...Miss...Thompson for a moment."

Dudley appeared to contemplate this for a moment, then heaved himself to his feet and shuffled out of the room. Without waiting for an invitation, Emma seated herself at the table and opened her briefcase.

"So what's this all about then?" asked Vernon in a hostile tone as the front door slammed shut.

"Well," said Emma slowly, rifling through her briefcase for a file, "it's really Harry I need to speak to. Is he here?"

"No," said Mrs. Dursley shortly.

Emma sighed. "Do you know when he's going to be back, then?"

"Not a clue," said Mr. Dursley. "He hasn't been around in, what, three or four weeks, Petunia?"

"Four," said Mrs. Dursley. "He came back for one night after his school term was over, with two of his hooligan friends, then left. We haven't seen him since." _And good riddance,_ her tone seemed to say.

Emma gripped the sides of her briefcase until her knuckles were white and forced herself to count to ten. Twice. There would be nothing to be gained by strangling the Dursleys. Much as it might improve her temper.

"I'm not sure if I explained the situation properly on the telephone earlier," she said slowly. "Harry Potter was arrested for breaking and entering last Tuesday in London. He escaped from police custody, and we haven't been able to track him down. I understand that he has a history of delinquency and that you may not be able to control his comings and goings, but we do need your assistance on this case."

There was a moment of slightly stunned silence following this.

"Breaking and entering, you say?" asked Mr. Dursley after a while, his thick black eyebrows furrowing until they met over the bridge of his nose.

Emma nodded a short affirmative, and Mrs. Dursley snorted.

"Always knew he'd come to no good," she muttered, almost to herself. Emma bit back an impatient remark with some difficulty.

"Yes, ma'am," she said instead. "Can you help us?"

"Dunno what you expect us to do about it," grunted Mr. Dursley.

"Are you absolutely certain he's not coming back?"

Mrs. Dursley was chewing at her lip. "He said he wasn't when he left, and that's good enough for us."

Emma sighed. "Do you at least have a picture of him? We've only a verbal description to go on, and it would really help..."

Mrs. Dursley shoved her chair away from the table with a loud scraping sound and stalked out of the room. There was a muffled sound as if she was rummaging through a drawer, and then she returned to shove a battered photograph into Emma's hand. Almost before she knew what was going on, Emma found herself ever-so-politely escorted to the door.

(bd)

In a large, dank, and thoroughly unpleasant manor in London, something that was not quite an argument was going on.

"I don't understand the problem." The speaker, a young woman with wildly frizzy hair and a face mostly obscured by shadows, was talking in between neat bites of a sandwich. "It's big, it's empty--the Order isn't using it anymore, so why shouldn't we--"

"That's just the _point_, Hermione!" The young man was sitting with his back to her, shoulders tense. "The Order isn't using it anymore because Dumbledore's dead, and there isn't anyone else they trust to make Secret Keeper, other than me, and I can't do it..."

"Because you can't keep from throwing yourself into dangerous situations," finished a second young man, coming into the room. "Harry, Hermione, I think I've found bedroom that's safe to sleep in, but we're going to have to share--seems like everything we cleaned out moved back in as soon as the Order left. And Harry," he added, "you're not going to like this, but...it was Sirius' room."

Both he and Hermione looked nervous, but Harry only shrugged. "Figures," he said heavily. "Way my luck's been going, I don't think I'd be surprised if Snape was camping out under the bed. Let's go."

He stood up and stretched as the other young man came into the room and wrapped an arm around Hermione's shoulder. Harry pretended to ignore the adoring glances they exchanged, making his way for the door.

"Ron, there's just something I should clarify," he said suddenly, his hand on the doorknob. Both Ron and Hermione jerked guiltily and looked up. Harry kept his face carefully straight. "We have to share a room, but if you and Hermione sleep in the same bed, I am going to be loudly sick."

He waited just long enough to take in their startled blushes, then broke into a run before Hermione could go for her wand.

(bd)

It was at least fifteen minutes later, and with very mussed hair, that Ron and Hermione finally showed up in the bedroom. Harry, who had just finished conjuring mattresses and bedclothes for the three of them, surveyed them with an amused eye. Ron flushed a little, but looked pleased with himself, and Hermione glared at him.

"I suppose you think that was really witty, earlier."

Harry raised his eyebrows. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

She scowled. "As if I don't know what you and Ginny were getting up to, on those 'picnics' of yours."

"_What?"_ yelped Ron. Harry sat down on his mattress and pretended to be very interested in a water spot on the wall. "Harry, what's she talking about--no, never mind," he said hurriedly. "I don't want to know."

Which was probably a good thing, Harry mused, as if he lied, Hermione would probably know, and if he told the truth, Ron would certainly kill him. He pressed his lips together and said nothing.

After a long and acutely uncomfortable silence, the two of them sank onto their respective mattresses, and Hermione cleared her throat. "Erm. As I was saying earlier..."

"We can't stay here," Harry said shortly.

"Why not?"

"Look, Hermione, do you _want_ to stay here?" he burst out. "I mean...look at the place!"

"It's safe," she insisted. "Safe is more important than comfortable just now."

Harry growled under his breath in frustration. "I know that. But it isn't either here. Even setting aside the fact that half of the furniture would probably murder us, given half a chance, the entire wizarding government knows I own this place, and it's only a matter of time until they look here..."

"Is there anywhere else we can go?" asked Ron quietly.

"I dunno." Harry ran his hands through his hair. "I wanted to hide out in the Muggle world, but..."

"That could be a problem now," said Hermione.

"Harry, you have a talent for irritating people, have I ever mentioned that?" said Ron. "I mean, you've got You-Know-Who after you because of that prophesy, the entire Ministry of Magic after you because they want to protect you--"

"--or lock me up, more likely," muttered Harry.

"--and now you've got the Muggle please-men after you as well," Ron finished, ignoring him.

"Police men," said Hermione.

"What?"

"They're police men, Ron, not please-men."

"Whatever," Ron shrugged. "The point, Harry, is that you need to stop upsetting people."

Harry snorted. "Yes, I'll get right to that. I got the bloody Horcrux, didn't I?"

"And got arrested in the process," said Hermione primly. "You're lucky they didn't take it away when you were searched--"

"Lucky nothing." Harry grinned. "I put it in that little Invisibility Sack you said I shouldn't spend all that money on. Guess it was worth it after all, eh?"

"Well, they were clearly overcharging for it..." Hermione shook her head and smiled, a bit wearily. "We can figure things out tomorrow. Tonight, we need sleep."

Ron nodded, crawling under his blankets. "Yes, O Mighty One, Liberator of House Elves, and..."

"Oh, shut up," snapped Hermione. Harry turned his back on both of them and pulled the covers over his head.


End file.
